Telling Lies (7 page)

Alexandra Hammersmith gave her a stare that would freeze most people in their tracks. “I seriously doubt that they knew this man, but I’d be glad to check with them. Mrs. Hudson will show you out,” she said to indicate that the interview was over.

Helen left her business card on the coffee table and turned to the maid, who was again standing in the doorway, summoned as if by magic. She followed her past the hall of mirrors and through the front door.

Outside, as she walked to her car parked in the circular driveway, Helen shivered, even though the sun was shining brightly. Alexandra Hammersmith gave new meaning to the term ‘cold as ice.’ It was going to take more than Helen had bargained on to crack through that brittle surface enough that it would shatter.

* * *

Back at her town house, Helen tossed her keys on the table by the front door and shrugged off her jacket. Her mind had been turning over what she’d learned from Alexandra Hammersmith. It wasn’t much. The one thing she was certain of was that the late financier’s widow had been lying to her.

Helen knew she’d taken a chance using the insurance policy gambit, especially since Jeff Sargasso had never been an employee of Hammersmith and Mann. She’d figured it would be the best way to shake things up, and it seemed she had succeeded. If Alexandra Hammersmith had nothing to hide, she wouldn’t have reacted the way she did, implying that she’d never heard of Jeff or Monica Sargasso.

Plus, there was still the matter of that missing fifteen million dollars. No matter how rich you were, fifteen million was nothing to sneer at, especially if you thought you could still get your hands on it.

Helen kicked off her shoes and headed in the direction of her study. She wanted to check her messages then call Joe Santangelo, her contact at New York Fidelity Insurance. She’d need to have it covered if Alexandra Hammersmith checked up on her phony insurance policy story. Joe, Fidelity’s Chief Fraud Investigator, was also Helen’s sometime employer and long time friend. Joe was someone Helen could always depend on, and in the past, she had counted on him for love, as well. Helen knew he’d have no problem confirming what she’d told Mrs. Hammersmith. Fidelity had written policies on several of Hammersmith and Mann’s high-placed executives and had paid out a bundle. He might also be willing to do a little digging into the Hammersmith’s finances. Even though it looked and felt like they were rich, the Hammersmiths might be struggling. Past experience had taught Helen it could all be a sham. If there were anything going on, Joe, a never-give-up kind of guy, would find it.

Helen checked her watch and picked up the phone. Joe would probably still be at his desk, mulling over some high profile case that looked just a little dicey to him.

He answered on the first ring. “Santangelo.”

“
Hey, big fella.” Helen’s gravelly voice imitated Marlon Brando in the
Godfather
. “I’m gonna make you an offer you can’t refuse.”

Kips Bay

New York City

Lior Stern was tired. He looked in the SUV’s rearview mirror, ran a hand over his darkly handsome, whisker-stubbled face, and rubbed his knuckles across piercing brown eyes that felt like they were filled with grit. He shifted his rangy six-two frame in the bucket seat of the black Toyota 4Runner he’d been cooped up in since this morning.

Lior hated driving in America. People thought the traffic in Tel Aviv was bad, but it was nothing like the total confusion that confronted a person who had to drive in New York City. Cars, taxis, busses, and trucks veered from lane to lane, jockeying for position as if they were competing in a road rally. Add double-parking, one-way streets, unintelligible parking rules and regulations, and driving became a true nightmare. His list of grievances could go on and on. Especially since all he’d done today was follow the McCorkendale woman to Connecticut, wait in the car, follow her back to the city, and wait some more.

He still hadn’t figured out her interest in the Hammersmith matter. Intelligence reports confirmed that she’d had nothing to do with the firm, its owner, or his deal with Moto, but suddenly she’d become involved. Something was going on, and it was the first real break the Asset Recovery Division had had in eight years. Tapping the Hammersmith’s phones for all this time had seemed to be wasted effort until now. When McCorkendale had called and mentioned Sargasso’s name, bells and whistles had gone off, as the Americans would say. Elan Rabinovitch, Lior’s superior, had put him on the case immediately, taking him off the low-level Iraqi informer he’d been cultivating in Queens and assigning him to tail the McCorkendale woman.

Lior knew that the agency considered this a high priority mission. The deal Hammersmith and Moto had been about to consummate was of incalculable importance to his country and to its politicians, who were always looking for leverage. If they could prove that Moto had the painting and then repatriate it, it would be the coup of the century. And if Lior had a role in a successful outcome, it could make his career.

Lior sighed and checked his watch. Yuri would be here soon to relieve him. He wondered if the woman in the house across the way had any idea of what she was getting into. Probably not. He saw a light come on in a first floor window and spill its glow to the street below. If she did, Helen McCorkendale would get out of town as fast as she could and never look back.

Galleria Toscana

Florence, Italy

The tiny silver bell over the door pealed softly as Laurel and Signore Mariotti entered the intimate gem of a gallery. Laurel stood quietly as its proprietor, Caterina Toscana, rose from the ancient, red velvet Cardinals’ bench behind her desk and greeted them effusively in Italian—smiling brightly and kissing her old friend on both cheeks.

Laurel glanced around, taking in the elegant jumble of art and objects d’art. The gallery specialized in 15
^th
and 16
^th
Century Italian Renaissance sculpture and paintings. It was slightly off the beaten path, on the Via di Tavolini—close enough to the Palazzo Vecchio and the Uffizi to entice the serious dealers and collectors, yet far enough away to discourage the “just looking” tourists. To Laurel it appeared as interesting and unusual as the woman who owned it. Petite and reed thin, Caterina had a natural mix of elegance and easygoing style that was a testament to her individuality.

When Walter Mariotti had called from Fiesole last evening and explained Laurel’s mission, the art dealer hadn’t hesitated. Caterina had immediately invited them to stop by this afternoon.

Laurel had been apprehensive about involving yet another person in what she’d come to think of as her Jeff Sargasso Quest. For one thing, it could be dangerous. For another, the more people who knew, the greater the chance of Sargasso discovering that she was looking for him. But one glance at Caterina’s resolute expression and determined eyes and Laurel’s tension began to slip away. She was drawn unhesitatingly to the woman’s formidable presence, which projected intelligence and kindness.

“
Laurel, Walter, please, sit.” She gestured to the two chairs across from her desk. Sitting back down, she reached for a pot of espresso set on an antique silver tray perched on its edge.

“
Caterina.” Leaning forward at the edge of her chair, Laurel searched for the right words. “Thank you for inviting us here today. I want you to know that I appreciate any help that you can give me. Truly.”

Caterina poured the thick black coffee into three cups. “Walter and I know each other a very long time.” She smiled at her friend as she handed him a coffee. “From time to time, he has helped me, and I have helped him.” She lifted her shoulders in an elegant shrug. “It is what friends do. Now, tell me your story, and we’ll see if there’s something I can do for you, as well.”

Laurel took a deep breath and repeated the story she’d told Walter Mariotti. Caterina listened carefully and patiently, saving any comments until Laurel’s story was complete.

She lifted her eyes to the gallery’s stucco ceiling. “Describe Sargasso to me again. The Sargasso from the Uffizi, not the one from New York. It will help me form a better picture of him in my mind.”

Laurel took a moment to focus inward. “The man I saw, Jeff, is … was about six feet tall. He had dark brown hair, parted on the left and combed down toward his forehead. His eyes were dark brown and framed by thick eyebrows. His mouth was smallish and turned down slightly at the corners, as though he was thinking of something serious.”

Laurel paused as she tried to recall any other details of his appearance that could be important.

“
He was broad-shouldered and fit looking, as if he worked out. His clothing was very Italian: simple yet classic, a white shirt, dark tie, and navy blue suit that fit well.” She stopped again.

“
This is very good,” encouraged Signore Mariotti, who’d been listening quietly. “Take your time. You will remember more.” He patted her arm.

Laurel smiled at him before continuing, “I think he was carrying a large leather envelope or portfolio under his arm. But I can’t be sure. I only saw him for a few seconds really.” She sighed in frustration. “You have to understand, I didn’t realize that the man was Jeff until we’d left the gallery.” She rubbed her forehead with her hand. “He used to have lighter hair and hazel eyes, but both are easy enough to change. All you need is hair dye and contact lenses.” She shook her head, her frustration surfacing again. “He also used to be a bit heavier and his face was different, thinner. It’s possible he’s lost weight and had plastic surgery. And his style in New York was more casual. But it was him. I’m positive. The way he ran his hand through his hair when he spoke to me … ” Her voice turned steely. “… I recognized the gesture. Jeff always did that when he got excited.”

Caterina transferred her gaze from the ceiling to Laurel. “I don’t want to discourage you, but this man you’re describing could be any one of a hundred businessmen in Florence.” She shrugged her shoulders heavenward again in sympathy. “An ordinary looking man. An art lover walking through the museum for a quick visit, or a husband hurrying to meet his wife for lunch in the
piazza
outside. Who knows? Is there anything else you remember? Anything at all?”

Laurel tried to recapture the encounter in her mind’s eye, viewing it as if it was a length of film, editing it frame by frame. The collision. The apology. The man moving away. Her turning back. She started to shake her head no, then stopped.

“
There is one other thing. On his suit—in his lapel on the left side—there was a small gold pin,” Laurel said excitedly. “I think I may have touched it when I turned after I bumped into him.”

Caterina sat up straighter. Her blue eyes opened wide as she exchanged a meaningful glance with Walter Mariotti. “Can you describe it?”

Laurel closed her eyes and concentrated on letting the image sharpen in her mind. “It was small, maybe half an inch wide, and shaped like a tiny shield, with a black cross and, I think, a scrolled banner with letters at the bottom.” Her eyes flew open and she stood up. “I can’t believe I remembered that. Do you think it means something?”

“
You may not know this, but Florence has a long tradition of societies and clubs. I myself belong to the Association of Renaissance Art Historians, as does Walter. Some of these groups are very old.” Caterina lifted her hands. “A few even date back as far the Renaissance. Many have emblems or crests to identify their members, like your Free Masons in the States. The pin you described, it could be from one of these organizations. It’s possible that your Jeff Sargasso belongs to of one of these clubs.”

“
Do you really think so? That would be …”

Caterina cut her off before she could finish. “Perhaps. But I have to warn you. Many of these Florentine clubs are populated with closed and secretive people.” She laughed derisively. “You know, a leftover from our Medici heritage.” Caterina shook her head of rich auburn hair from side to side. “If Sargasso is a member of such a group, his comrades will not appreciate a stranger prying into their affairs.” Signore Mariotti stood up and put his hand on Laurel’s shoulder. “Caterina is right. If we can identify the pin, we will have to be very careful about how we proceed with our inquiries.”

The atmosphere had become heavy and filled with a sense of foreboding. Caterina smiled reassuringly as if trying to lighten the mood. “Let me see what I can find out. Contrary to what Walter has told you,” she nodded her head toward her friend, “I don’t know every single person in the city. But I will speak to those I do know and we’ll see.”

Laurel took the woman’s hand. “Thank you for getting involved.” She noticed that the other woman’s eyes had become solemn. “I can’t tell you what it would mean if we found him.”

“
You should thank Walter.” Caterina gestured toward her old friend. “I still owe him a few favors, and it appears he thinks that it’s time I pay up.”